


Not to the Victor the Spoils

by Dark_Sinestra



Series: DS9: Sub-Prime [11]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien anatomy, Biting, Bodily Fluids, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Friendship, Hate Sex, Intrigue, Manipulation, Mild S&M, Power Dynamics, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 06:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16424543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Sinestra/pseuds/Dark_Sinestra
Summary: The Dominion shadow grows longer and darker, and a new, unexpected threat shakes life on the station, Klingon aggression. Worf joins the DS9 crew. Newly promoted Julian Bashir gets a further taste of combat. Old enemies and old friends are reunited with disastrous results.





	Not to the Victor the Spoils

**Part I**  
   
_Decla Lisane  
Private Quarters_  
   
With green eyes locked to blue, Lisane found herself slowly drifting between memory and the here and now, a languid oscillation facilitated by the movement of the man atop her and the sleek feel of a scaled back beneath her spread fingers. Her room was hot, a courtesy she extended to her guest whenever she found herself entertaining him, something that had been happening with greater frequency of late. With just a slight loss of focus and lowering of lashes, she could swim in that blue and diffuse it gray, blur the edges of the sharp eye ridges to something a bit softer and rounder. Then, with that image in mind, she could close her eyes and thaw her heart for a short time until she felt as liquid as her sweat. She didn't think his name, didn't dare, lest she say it aloud and remind the man with her of what she hoped he had forgotten, or never thought to bring to mind to begin with. Still, she knew Cardassians. It meant she had to try harder.  
   
She flexed her back and pushed him, wrapping her fingers around one of his thick wrists. He allowed her to do this, to flip him to his back so that it was she looking down and he looking up. Even recumbent he gave no impression of vulnerability. She could feel his strength as a palpable thrum between her legs, centered where they were joined. Always, he managed to drag her out of her past and force her to face him, Garak, whose guise as a tailor fit him considerably less than his well made clothing.  
   
He reached for her thighs. She pushed his hands back, twined fingers to fingers, pressed palms to palms, and shoved the backs of his knuckles into the mattress. With extra pressure for emphasis, she released them and lightly traced her fingertips over the elaborate scroll work in scale and ridge of his chest and ribs. Again he allowed this, kept his hands where she put them and curled his fingers inward toward the palms. His gaze was pressure enough, claim enough, so intense at times she could hardly bear his touch. She wasn't fooled into mistaking his cooperation for submission. She knew better.  
   
She also knew this was her fault, all of it. Had she left well enough alone, he never would have wounded her pride; she wouldn't have lashed out as soon as she saw the opportunity. The two of them wouldn't be embroiled in this nerve wracking game. Maybe on some level, she blamed Feylan, too, sought to punish what remained of him within her with this completely unsuitable lover. It didn't matter how it started. They were too deeply involved in it now to back off and quit. She realized she was digging her nails into both of his main pectoral ridges, and by the darkness of his eyes, she could tell that he liked it.  _At least there's that,_  she thought, leaning forward to bite at his jaw.  _He likes when I hurt him as much as I enjoy doing it._  He gave a soft warning growl and shifted his head suddenly. She drew back with a thin ridge surface scale between her teeth, translucent once separated from its mates, smiled and spat it to the side with a careless flick.  
   
“You really are a savage, my dear,” he purred in the tone of voice that turned half of her innards to jelly and made her damp even when they weren't so intimately engaged. “Those aren't made for tearing off.” He ran his hands up the tops of her thighs, and this time she allowed it. She readjusted herself to his grip at her hips but resisted his attempts to quicken her rhythm.  
   
“Aren't they?” she asked, flicking a finger over the fresh one in its place. “It's not as though they don't self replenish.”  
   
“Skin heals. Would you say that makes it made for cutting?” he retorted with a significant look.  
   
She tilted her head curiously and pretended to consider the question. She glided her hands down his chest and over his smooth belly. Curving her fingers inward, she dimpled the rows of scale and used her thumb nails to flick at the undersides. He inhaled sharply, and his grasp of her hips went from tight to punishing. She smiled again, wider. That was more like it. Before he could stop her, she ripped one of the scales loose and sent it sailing into a fold of the twisted covers.  
   
Just as quickly, he surged beneath her and flipped her to her back, pinning her flat to the mattress and seizing both of her wrists. She didn't make it easy for him, struggling and forcing him to put real effort into securing her arms above her head. “That,” he growled low, his face mere centimeters from hers, “was not nice.”  
   
She laughed and lunged for him, her teeth snapping on air and not his lower lip only thanks to his reflexes. “Since when am I ever nice?” She knew he'd hurt her for crossing a line, and he didn't disappoint. She liked his wrath most of all, because it was when he least resembled her Feylan. It was when she could despise him with a clean conscience, and when it was over and he crushed her beneath his lax weight, it was when she could admit to herself that anything less no longer had the ability to move her at all. Tears slid freely from the corners of her eyes and mingled with her sweat to darken the hair at her temples from flax to wheat.  
   
He pressed up to one elbow and shook his head. “You should have said something.” He flicked away a tear with distaste curving his mouth downward into a line that flirted with contempt.  
   
“Right,” she whispered, expressing the same in reverse, her lips curving upward. “No, Garak...stop, Garak...you're hurting me, Garak. You'd have eaten it with a spoon and gone for a second helping. I don't think so.”  
   
“This is the second helping,” he said drolly.  
   
She smirked. “True, and not bad for a man your age.” She kissed him on the nose, something she knew he didn't like.  
   
“Speaking of that, aren't you a little long in the tooth yourself to be quite so insatiable?” he asked, rolling off of her with a soft grunt and settling on his back.  
   
“What can I say?” she rolled a bare shouldered shrug, glad of the chance to let her sweat dry and cool her in the stifling air. “You bring all sorts of things out in me that I find surprising.”  
   
“I'll just bet.” He stayed quiet for a while after that. She wasn't lulled into believing he was falling asleep. He rarely fell asleep first. “Do you want me to stay?” he asked, breaking the silence.  
   
She sighed. “We've been through this. If you want to stay, stay. If you want to go, go.”  
   
“Yes,” he agreed, “and it occurred to me that in forcing my hand at showing a preference, you keep me at a distinct disadvantage. Tonight, you decide.”  
   
Rolling to her side, she rested her head on her upward extended arm and prodded at his calf with a toe. “I could just as easily not decide, and the result will be the same. You'll either stay or you'll go.”  
   
“Yes, I'll stay, and I'll keep you awake. My job doesn't require much of me. Being well rested or not so much, I can cut a pattern and stitch a straight line. With the doctor away on the Defiant, can you say the same of yours?”  
   
For the first time that night, she felt genuinely cross. “That's very childish of you,” she said.  
   
“So is your insistence that I always choose.”  
   
As satisfying as she knew it would be to dismiss him and make it clear to him that he had served his purpose for the night, she also knew it wouldn't further her own agenda. “You're an irritating man,” she said, lifting up onto her elbow and propping her cheek in her hand. “So we're discussing insistence?” she asked, very careful only to show him her irritation and not the fact that he just gave her the opening she had been angling for ever since they began this dance.  
   
“Yes,” he said, suddenly cautious.  
   
“Then why are we always here? Why my quarters every single time and not yours?” she asked bluntly.  
   
He blinked his surprise. “My dear, you've never expressed an interest in visiting me in my quarters.”  
   
“Inviting myself? I may be a savage, as you say. That doesn't mean I have no manners,” she said, tightening her mouth.  
   
“How deftly you imply that I have none,” he said, dryly amused. “Very well, Lisane. When next we meet privately, we'll meet in my quarters. I never realized this was such a thorn in your heel.”  
   
“No more than I realized exerting your own free will to stay or go taxed you so,” she said in saccharine tones. “Why not stay? If we awaken in time, we can argue for the full duration of breakfast and still manage to clean our plates.”  
   
“I never knew you were such a sweet talker,” he said, matching her tone. “You make the prospect positively irresistible.”  
   
Sleeping with him was actually one of the more pleasant aspects of the association. She had missed having someone in her bed since the death of her husband. Unlike her husband, Garak didn't snore, and he was cool and dry against her skin instead of oppressively hot and sticky. He didn't cling to her in his sleep like a drowning man to a life line. He didn't make her feel guilty for her uncharitable thoughts of him. He had the decency to deserve them.  
   
She feigned sleep until he fell asleep and slowly opened her eyes. Starlight from her view port added its scant illumination to the faintly glowing night lantern she kept atop her dresser in case she needed to arise in the dark. The bluish light suited the Cardassian's pale gray skin, paler than many of his race she had seen during the occupation. She had always assumed it to be a regional variance in the species. Feylan, for all of his genuine devotion, was as tight lipped about his people as Garak. The only reliable knowledge she had of them came from her own experiences, as a professional in the medical field, a former resistance fighter, and an unlikely lover. It was more than most non-Cardassians possessed.  
   
It was said among her people that to see a true face, one had but to watch a sleeper. If such were true of Garak, it meant there was little behind his facade. He looked neither innocent nor guilty, malicious nor kind. His sleeping face reminded her of nothing so much as a death mask, his papery eyelids so translucent she imagined that she could see iris and pupil beneath. She knew, however, that it was a mere trick of light and shadow.  
   
His chest rose and fell slowly. She spread her hand very lightly atop it and felt the strong, languid thumping of his heart at rest.  _So slow,_  she thought, recalling the first time she had lain her head atop Feylan's chest and how she thought he was in shock.  _We never had time,_  she thought, irrationally angry with Garak that they did, had they truly wanted it. They had nothing but time while waiting for the entire quadrant to exhale over this Dominion threat. Bajor had barely drawn her first free breaths in over sixty years, and already someone else was eying her hungrily.  
   
_The Prophets,_  she thought contemptuously,  _opening wide the Celestial Temple so that we can be devoured whole._  She knew such blasphemous thoughts would get her in trouble if ever she spoke them aloud. She passed a fingertip down the soft, shallow depression over his sternum, the Cardassian navel. He opened his eyes and seized her wrist, both happening so quickly she had no time to react. “I'm sorry I woke you,” she murmured, inwardly cursing her own stupidity. He was never a heavy sleeper.  
   
“What is it, Lisane?” he asked, matching her volume. He shifted to his side to face her, his clasp migrating upward to encircle her fingers in a loose grip.  
   
“I don't know,” she said. It was only partially true, for she was aware that there were several things combined keeping her awake, keeping her unsettled. Any one of them could be the cause of her current discomfiture and inexplicable need to touch him. His eyes caught a sliver of starlight and glinted silver. She shivered.  
   
“You can't be cold,” he said. He released her fingers and bridged the small gap between them with his outstretched arm, teasing her still damp hair off of her shoulder and releasing it to slide over her back.  
   
She shivered again, harder. “I'm not,” she said, but it was a lie. Inside, she felt like ice. His cruelty was much easier to stomach than his kindness. “Go back to sleep. I'm sorry I disturbed you.” She tried to turn her back to him. He prevented her, shifting himself and pulling at her until she lay propped against his side with her head resting in the relatively soft hollow of his shoulder. “Garak...” she said uncomfortably.  
   
“You didn't ask me for this, so don't be stubborn,” he said, a hint of irritability sharpening the murmur.  
   
That felt more familiar. She smiled against his chest and let her eyelids set their own rhythm toward sleep. She didn't know if he slept again that night and didn't really care. In his arms, she was always undisturbed by dreams, like claiming a little death of her own.  
   
_Garak  
Replimat Café_  
   
Sitting in the Replimat and people watching was such a habit for him now that he often found himself in the place when he wasn't really hungry or wanting company but wished to think somewhere that the silence wasn't deafening. For the first time since he could ever recall, Garak found himself worried about the stability and survival of his homeworld government. News out of Cardassia, scant as it was, wasn't good, and another of his contacts had recently gone mysteriously quiet, whether in hiding or dead, he couldn't be sure.  
   
He had known that the destruction of the Obsidian Order would leave a power vacuum, and power vacuums were dangerous. They practically begged to be filled. Indeed, they drew in malcontents, the power hungry, and do-gooders alike, the dissidents wanting anything but what they had, the power hungry seeing opportunity, and the last naïve enough to believe that whatever they had to offer would actually be better than what was currently in place. He wondered if he hadn't made a mistake in remaining on the station, only to mock himself.  _Watch it, Elim. You're dangerously close to do-gooder territory._  No, his presence on Cardassia Prime would not have been a stabilizing influence whatsoever. Those scarred by the legacy of Tain would associate him with the old guard and mistrust his motives, and those with grudges would see him as a threat to their own designs for power.  
   
He wasn't interested in power these days. In his younger years, he had drunk his fill of it, glutted until he swelled and nearly burst. What had it gotten him? In an affair with a married woman with a powerful and dangerous husband. A handful of interrogations and executions of which he could feel genuinely proud. The illusion of security that once shattered very nearly shattered him as well. An irreparable breach with his father. Painful distance from his mother. The long, cold fall into the oblivion of his exile and blood on his hands that he knew he had no right to have shed. On the surface he could claim self-defense, but it was his own machinations and hubris that led to the attack by Palandine's husband. No, he'd leave power to those who still lived the dream. For him survival had become infinitely more attractive, not just his own but that of the Union.  
   
_What a mess,_  he thought disconsolately. His tea was cold and almost untouched. A warm hand on his shoulder nearly sent him out of his own skin. It had been ages since anyone managed to startle him like that. He must have been thinking entirely too hard. “You're a million kilometers away,” Julian said with a soft smile, easing into a chair catty corner to him instead of across.  
   
“Yes,” he said, brightening. “I can't decide if hem lines are trending upward or down this season. What do you think?” It wasn't one of his better lies; he'd be the first to admit. He narrowed his eyes as his gaze lighted upon Julian's collar, sheerly by happenstance, of course. He wasn't staring at the doctor's neck. Lying to himself could sometimes be entertaining, too. “You've been promoted,” he said, sounding almost accusatory.  
   
The doctor nodded. “I think you're an abominable liar, to answer your question,” he said cheerfully.  
   
“I am an excellent liar,” he retorted, sitting up a bit straighter.  
   
Julian smiled warmly and shook his head. “If you're wondering why I didn't tell you about the promotion, it's just not something I felt like bragging about.”  
   
“You should feel proud of your accomplishments, Lieutenant,” Garak chided him and teased him in the same breath.  
   
“I am. I mean, yes, I feel as though I've earned this promotion. I worked hard for it, and we've all been through a lot facing the threat of war. It's just that my rank and position have never had much bearing on our friendship. We have much more interesting discussions.”  
   
“Except about what happened aboard the Defiant,” the tailor said, watching for the uneasy flicker that showed itself in the man's eyes every time he mentioned their last excursion. He wasn't disappointed.  
   
“Garak,” Julian said, warning in the tone.  
   
“I know. I know. It's a Starfleet matter.” He had to resist the urge to cover the warm, brown hand resting on the table so close to his own. Feeling skittish for his own reasons was hard enough without seeing similar unease in someone he loved. At least one of them should have their equilibrium at any given time.  
   
“What's bothering you?” the doctor asked, speaking more quietly and leaning closer, close enough that he could smell the infirmary still upon him.  
   
“I need to start curtailing my late nights,” he said, knowing that it would deflect the line of questioning more quickly than almost anything else he could say. It would also put needed distance between them. No matter how much affection he had for the Starfleet officer, he had no intention of taking them a step back when they were making true progress as friends and when Julian's career seemed back on track.  
   
The man leaned back again and slumped slightly in his chair. “Rest is important,” he said neutrally.  
   
“So it is,” he agreed. Pushing to his feet, he lifted his mug. “I've wasted enough time away from the shop for one afternoon. I should have gotten back at least an hour ago.” He took the mug to the recycler and returned to the table. “Shall I walk you back to the infirmary first? I need to speak to Lisane about something, and I'd enjoy the company on the way.”  
   
“I don't see why not,” the doctor replied, standing and falling into step with him. “So, things are going well with you two?” he asked.  
   
Bless him, he almost managed to subsume completely the stress in his voice that accompanied the question. Garak admired the effort. He wasn't inclined to speak to him about his Dabo girl at all if he could help it. “As well as you might expect,” he answered vaguely.  
   
Julian tried unsuccessfully to hide a wry smile. “You're a Cardassian who was here during the occupation, and she's a former Bajoran resistance fighter. How well do you think I'd expect? Frankly, I'm surprised that one of you isn't dead by now.”  
   
Garak smirked. “My dear man, it is never dull.” He closed his mouth in a way that indicated he was done expounding upon that particular subject and watched the doctor from the corners of his eyes, not easy to do with the wide curve of eye ridges in the way. He looked good. He carried himself a bit more confidently and wore his experience well. He was a far cry from the man Garak singled out at the Replimat those few years before. Although he liked to think that in some small way he had a part in the development, he knew that most of it was due to Julian's exceptional intelligence and dedication to his work.  
   
When they reached the infirmary, Julian said, perhaps a tad more loudly than was called for, “So we're still on for lunch tomorrow?”  
   
“Of course,” he replied, inclining his head. “I simply cannot wait to tell you my opinion of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream',” he added very, very dryly.  
   
Snorting softly, the doctor cast one glance between him and Lisane as she approached and made a graceful retreat toward his work station. “Garak?” she asked when she reached him.  
   
Despite what he had said to Julian, the two of them had not spent another night together in nearly two weeks since their discussion of where they met. He wanted to be convincing, that having her in his space was difficult and not what he had been working toward since formulating his plan. “I'm sorry for approaching you at work,” he said in a low murmur. “I simply wanted to extend this invitation before I could change my mind.” She lifted a brow and waited. “I'd like for you to join me in my quarters after dinner. I regret that I can't accommodate you before then, but I have some pressing business to attend that cannot wait.”  
   
She considered for so long after he asked, that at first he thought she might refuse him after all. “All right,” she said. “Expect me at 2300, unless that's too early?”  
   
“No, that will be perfect,” he said, letting his genuine relief show in his smile. She would almost certainly mistake the motive behind it. It gave him great satisfaction to see the hostile glances he evoked for both of them by his mere presence there. Her Bajoran co-workers were less forgiving of her than they had ever been of Julian for the association. He knew that for a fact from things both Rom and Quark had told him. “I'll let you get back to work,” he said, not taking things so far as to try to touch her in front of the others. He knew she'd never allow it. As he left, he only just avoided humming under his breath. This was the first real progress he had made in some time. He could only hope that she was as skilled and devious as he thought she might be, or he had been wasting his time and efforts.  
   
_Decla Lisane  
Garak's Private Quarters_  
   
From the moment she set foot into the impeccable, tastefully appointed sitting room, Lisane knew that she was in trouble. She thought she had prepared herself for what she needed to do. She thought that getting what she had worked so hard to attain, access, would provide her with a tremendous sense of satisfaction. Instead, cold dread came to roost in the pit of her stomach and made itself at home. She thought for the first few moments after her arrival that she would literally be sick. Garak took her gift of a small cashmere throw from hands that felt like someone else's. His pleasant smile faded to a look of concern. “My dear?” he asked, setting the gift aside and taking her by the hands. “You're as white as a sheet. Come sit.”  
   
She allowed him to direct her to his sofa and sank onto it gratefully. White spots danced in her vision.  _Pull yourself together,_  she thought angrily.  _This isn't your first trip into hostile territory. Stop acting like a green recruit._  Had she already managed to grow soft in the few years since the occupation ended? Had three squares, a regular place to sleep, and a steady income quenched her fire completely? Her cold, pale cheeks flared red with self-loathing and shame. “I'm OK,” she said brusquely, “although I think I may be coming down with something. I haven't felt quite right all afternoon.” She could lie as facilely as he when she needed to. She met his gaze without hesitation.  
   
“Your hands are like ice,” he said, rubbing them between his. The friction of his scales warmed her quickly. “I'll get you some tea.” She watched him stand and move to the replicator. If she allowed herself to believe the lines of concern in his eye ridges, she thought she might truly be sick. He was convincing, so very convincing, and it wasn't the first time he had taken her care into his hands with such solicitation. He returned to her and pressed her the hot mug, not releasing it until he was sure she had a good grip. “You should have sent me a message that you're not feeling well,” he chided her. “I would've understood.”  
   
She smiled faintly and took a bracing sip of the tea, surprised to find that it was not red leaf, but deka. “How did you...” she started to ask.  
   
He smiled. “Major Kira tells me that deka tea can be quite palliative, when the leaves have been aged.”  
   
She nodded and took a few more sips of the astringent brew. Her tongue and throat tingled, and warmth settled and pooled in her stomach, easing its clench.  _I can do this,_  she thought. “I'm surprised Kira talks to you at all,” she said.  
   
“We have...an understanding,” he explained. “Your color is returning. Do you want me to escort you back to your quarters so that you can rest?”  
   
“No,” she said, leaning to place her mug on a side table. “I want to spend some time with you. We've hardly seen each other lately. I finally have more time with the doctor back. I don't intend to waste it.” She glanced about his living space, finding it not at all surprising in its décor. “The place is really you.”  
   
“It suffices,” he said with a shrug. He rose from his seat beside her and crossed to where he had placed the throw. “You were kind to bring me a gift.” He brought it back with him, spreading it to have a closer look. “Green and rust,” he glanced at her. “You do pay attention.”  
   
_More than you could ever imagine,_  she thought. She offered him a brilliant smile. “You make it easy,” she said. “Do you like the fabric? I was quite taken with it. I ordered a cashmere sweater about a year ago. I only regret that I haven't had more occasion to wear it.”  
   
“I do like it, yes,” he said. He stopped before her and bent to wrap it lightly about her shoulders. “I should make something green for you. It sets off your eyes.” She sat perfectly still while he arranged the blanket, hardly able to breathe. When he stood over her like that with gentle hands and dangerous eyes, the contradictory impulses he evoked nearly overwhelmed her. To her relief, once he had the blanket arranged, he backed off and retook a seat further down the sofa.  
   
“It is somewhat cold in here,” she said, not having realized it until the warmth of the cashmere brought it to her attention.  
   
“You're kind enough to accommodate me when I visit you. I felt it would be boorish of me not to return the favor,” he said.  
   
“It's not necessary,” she said. “I like the heat. It's one of the few times I ever get to sweat on this station. Set it to your comfort level.”  
   
“You're certain? I don't want to tax you if you're becoming ill.”  
   
She made an impatient noise, shrugging out of the throw and unfurling from her seat. In two quick strides, she reached him and lowered to straddle his lap. “I don't want your damned solicitousness,” she said, balling both fists in his thick tunic and narrowing her gaze, “any more than you want it from me.” She hadn't intended to do this so artlessly, but he just had to give her that covetous, hungry look when speaking of putting her in something green. She kissed him roughly, beyond pleased when he responded in kind, both of them careless of teeth.  
   
“Computer,” he said when she let him up for air, “reset environmental controls to my usual default.” He seemed as though he intended to say more. She didn't give him the opportunity. When the ravening hunger had been awakened, she couldn't get enough. She didn't have to worry about taking care with him, physically or otherwise. She knew that had he chosen, he could easily kill her, and she believed that somewhere behind those passion dark eyes of his lurked a desire to do just that.  _Do you hate yourself when we do this as much as I do?_  She wondered. She hoped that he did, that deep within him there was a twin to the part of her that recoiled from this contact and watched, appalled and silent.  
   
She felt pressure between her legs where there had just been none and smiled inwardly, lifting herself so that he had to arch upward to maintain contact. She laughed aloud when he grabbed her hips and forced her back downward; the laughter died off on a moan as he ground a tight circle. She continued to fight him, the sofa rocking and creaking with the force of their struggles.  
   
He pushed one foot against the floor and twisted them to the side. Scrabbling for purchase, she managed to scramble down half the length of the couch before being dragged back by the back of her belt. She quickly unbuckled it and would have given him the slip had he not gotten a tight grip on her ankle. He jerked her back to a stomach down sprawl over the sofa seat and crushed her with his weight atop her. She felt his forearms thrust beneath her and the clutch of his hands over the tops of her collarbones, the pressure of his fingertips bruising and painful.  
   
Jerking her head back, she popped the cusp of his chin. He withdrew with a hiss of pain between clenched teeth, and once more she started to scrabble forward. She managed to curve a hand over the sofa arm. His weight lifted and shifted to a straddle over her lower back. He yanked her hand free of its hold and pressed her face straight into the sofa cushion. Now she struggled in earnest, arousal giving way to fear that she may have pushed him too far. The harder she struggled, the tighter he pressed her face, until her breath came in sharp, painfully difficult wheezes.  
   
“Why do you insist on making this so hard on yourself?” he asked, sounding only slightly out of breath from exertion.  
   
She made a small, mocking noise in the back of her throat, earning herself a complete obstruction of all air. She lay still for as long as she could, her body finally taking matters into its own hands and thrashing when her lungs began to burn and spots danced in her vision. Only when her vision started to tunnel did he release the pressure and allow her a few ragged gasps.  
   
“No answer?” he purred, pressing her face down again. “Is it the only way you can justify this to yourself, Lisane? Creating the illusion that I'm forcing you, when we both know all you'd have to do is say 'no' and mean it? Or perhaps it's that this is how you have to see me.” He snorted a soft, derisive laugh.  
   
She worked her free hand from beneath her and reached back, stroking lightly over the side and top of his thigh. He always had the uncanny knack of hitting his marks with his pointed observations. It was just one more way he scored her, but she had her ways of wounding him, too. She felt his grasp of her wrist and her hair loosen, and she took the opportunity to turn her face to the side and take a few more unrestricted breaths. “Don't try to pretend you don't enjoy it this way, Garak,” she murmured. “For all of your veneer of civility, this is closer to your true nature. I'd think you'd appreciate having someone who sees it and doesn't force you to hold back.”  
   
“I hold back,” he said. “You should thank your Prophets that I do.” His nails raked her scalp as he tightened his grip again.  
   
She had seen what his people were capable of. She knew there was much truth in what he said. “Not for my sake,” she said spitefully, “but yours. What would happen if you crossed that line, not because someone back home gave you orders, but simply...because you wanted to? You crossed it with Bashir. Do you have to love someone to want to hurt them?”  
   
Agony shot from her captured hand all the way up her arm to ball and throb in her shoulder. She couldn't tell what he had done. It felt like just the smallest shift of his clasp, and yet whatever it was, he had set her nerves on fire. She bit down over an outcry and held still for as long as she could stand it then began to struggle. Finally, she couldn't help herself. She let out an anguished groan. “Enough! Damn you, that's enough!” She gasped and shuddered with relief as soon as he released the hold.  
   
“You won't mention that to me ever again, I trust,” he said very casually.  
   
“Did I touch a nerve?” she asked, inwardly trembling at her own audacity.  _Do you want this man to kill you? Are you that far gone?_  
   
“Do you want to find out how many nerves I can touch?” he asked in that same casual way that chilled her far more than if he had growled his threat.  
   
She tried to turn over beneath him, and he lifted enough to allow it and resettled. Watching his cold eyes, she reached down and felt for him, finding his trousers stretched taut and damp through the thick fabric. “You seem to like the idea,” she said, scratching her nails lightly over the upper curve of the bulge. “How far would you take it?” She pressed her palm flat and rubbed upward, feeling his cock leaping against the pressure.  
   
“If you want to know that, mention Julian again,” he said, one corner of his mouth curving sardonically.  
   
As much as she wanted to, her shoulder was still throbbing, and something about the look in his eyes made her believe that if she crossed that line, not only would it cost her in pain, he'd then toss her out and likely never look back. She closed her eyes to hide the resentment she felt toward him for what he might possibly hold over her and swallowed when she felt his hands unfastening her tunic. Dry heat greeted her bare skin, the environmental controls quick to do their work.  
   
If she kept her eyes closed and didn't prompt him to talk, she could almost imagine Feylan now, except that Garak was more skilled, more...thorough. Divorced from her mind, her body responded to him with such visceral pleasure that it left her weak and panting. She allowed him to do as he wished, as having his way with her after dominating her seemed to please him, and that night more than any other before she wanted him exhausted. She coaxed and maddened him in small ways, playing his desire as skillfully as he hers. Indeed, she had studied him with single minded focus and knew how to drive him to the edge of his control.  
   
She couldn't recall exactly when or how they made it to the bedroom. His bed was smaller than hers, forcing them to stifling closeness. It worried her, because there would be no way to get out of it without awakening him once he fell asleep. Even exhausted, he was much too light of a sleeper for that. She rarely bothered washing until the next morning when she was with him, so she knew that breaking the routine was a bit of a gamble. Anything at all could raise his suspicions. She had to try. “Ugh,” she said with a soft laugh. “You didn't tell me your bed was so small.”  
   
He nipped the cusp of her shoulder lightly. “Had I, you would have simply accused me of trying to make excuses to keep you from my quarters.”  
   
“Mm, probably,” she said, pressing her back against his chest and stomach. “Would you think me horrid if I insisted on bathing right now? The thought of being this sweaty so close all night just isn't at all appealing.”  
   
“Do as you wish, Lisane,” he said, releasing his one armed hold of her. “I want you to feel comfortable here.”  
   
“I'll try not to awaken you when I come back to bed,” she said, slipping from beneath the sheet and giving a careless caress of his cheek.  
   
“You probably will, but it's all right,” he assured her. “You know what a light sleeper I am.”  
   
_All too well,_  she thought grimly. She retreated to his bathroom, as clean and well decorated as the rest of the quarters, and took her time getting clean. If he was true to form, he would take a little time to fall asleep, more than a Bajoran who had similarly exerted himself. He had marked her surprisingly little this time, almost gentle after their initial tussle on the couch. Almost. She rubbed light fingers over a purpling bruise at her collar bone and winced slightly. Instead of a shower, she took a bath, and when she was drying, she had the computer take the lights down nearly all the way. She needed to be acclimated to the darkness.  
   
She stepped into the bedroom and waited. When she heard his even, deep breaths, she waited even longer. She had to be sure. Stealthily she slipped from the bedroom and padded on silent, bare feet into his sitting room. She sat at his terminal and pulled up a display of recent activity, using her medical override code to bypass the usual privacy settings. She noticed several transmissions back and forth between him and various contacts on Cardassia, none of them names she recognized.  
   
On impulse, she tried a search of Feylan's name. The system pulled up a single file. Unfortunately, it was encrypted. Grunting softly, she systematically went through everything she knew about Cardassian encryption, trying various codes. Her fingers flew over the terminal, and always she kept a sharp ear to the room behind her. Sweating as much from anxiety as heat, she thought,  _Come on. Come on! All those intercepted transmissions have to count toward something now._  She had almost decided that she'd have to give it up that night when a much older code, one of the first she ever learned, worked. She inhaled sharply and bit her tongue to blood when she read exactly what the “tailor” had managed to gather on her former lover.  
   
_How?_  She thought numbly.  _How did he manage all of this? Who has he spoken to on Bajor?_  She didn't have to know Garak to know that he could completely ruin Feylan Pa'Ren's career, his very life, with what he had discovered.  _Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why did you provoke him? Why didn't you think?_  If she could take back her ham-fisted power play in the infirmary, she'd do it a hundred times over. She raked a shaking hand through her still wet hair and pressed her lips to a thin line.  _What can I do now?_  She wondered.  
   
She knew she had no choice but to try to contact Feylan. She had to warn him of what she had potentially unleashed upon him. Hopefully, he would have enough contacts and political clout to bury anything Garak tried to throw at him. She hastily composed a brief but informative message and sent it on an encrypted subspace channel. She then did everything that she could to erase any trace of her presence in Garak's system. She knew that if Bashir were really paying attention, he might notice that she had made an unauthorized use of her medical override code, but he had been so distracted lately with training drills for dealing with changeling infiltration that he probably wouldn't be combing computer usage records that thoroughly. It was a risk she had to take, and it would be easier to lie her way out of any inconvenience from breaking protocol than it would be to sit back and let Garak destroy the man she loved.  
   
Nausea twisted her gut at the thought of having to climb back into bed with him. Her worst fear about him, her very worst fear, was true. All of this time that he had been engaging her company, he had been working to undo her, not directly, but in the worst possible way. Every smile, every caress concealed cold, determined malice. The sour taste of bile burned the back of her throat, and she lifted a hand to her mouth.  _Any worse than your trying to seduce him out of his justified rage?_  She asked herself.  _Yes,_  came the fierce response.  _Feylan is an innocent in this! And Doctor Bashir wasn't?_  
   
“Prophets,” she whispered aloud, squeezing back the burn of tears. She stood on shaking legs and tottered to the bedroom. The sight of him beneath the covers finished what her disturbing discovery started. She rushed to the bathroom just in time and fell to her knees on the cool floor, retching again and again.  
   
She didn't hear him enter the bathroom and very nearly banged her head on the waste basin when she felt cool, dry hands gathering her hair and lifting it away from her face. She couldn't speak, taken over with dry heaves. Eventually, she slumped to the side, gasping and trying to regain some sense of equilibrium. “You shouldn't have pushed yourself tonight,” he said, his voice having an odd, disembodied quality in the near total darkness.  
   
“I'm fine,” she rasped harshly. “I really think I should get back to my quarters, though. I've made enough of a mess here.”  
   
“I'll help you,” he said.  
   
“No!” She dug her nails into her palms to try to calm herself. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I just...I hate having anyone fuss over me when I'm ill. It's a nurse thing.”  
   
“I understand,” he said. “Let me at least gather your clothing for you.”  
   
“All right,” she said weakly. She stayed where she was while he retreated and rested her cheek against the wall.  _Did you really think you'd be able to persuade him not to seek vengeance? You couldn't keep Feylan with you, and he loved you. Kosst Cardassians!_ She wiped her eyes before the tears could fall.  
   
She heard his footsteps approaching and hauled herself to her feet, accepting the press of clothing into her outstretched hands. He left her alone so that she could dress herself. When she left the bathroom, she saw that he had the lights pulled up dimly for her, and she found him wrapped in a robe and waiting for her in the sitting room. She forced herself not to look at his computer terminal. “I don't feel good about allowing you to walk back to your quarters alone,” he told her. “You look like you can barely keep your feet.”  
   
“I'll make it, Garak,” she said. “I'm just sorry for leaving you a mess to clean up.” She had no idea how she could sound so normal speaking to him when all she wanted to do was to bash his head against a bulkhead until it split.  
   
“I can hardly hold that against you,” he said, moving to walk her out. “I just hope that you feel better soon.”  
   
“I'm sure I will,” she said, her voice sounding hollow in her ears. “Thank you. Good night.” She walked the corridor until it curved and took her out of sight of his door, and then she began to run. She knew it was futile. She couldn't outrun the disgust she felt for him or herself, and no amount of bathing would remove the taint of his touch.

**Part II**

_Garak  
Private Quarters_  
   
Garak waited only long enough to be sure that Lisane wouldn't return before checking his computer interface. He had to admit that she was fairly decent at hiding her activities, but it didn't take him very long to discover her fingerprints in the system. He smiled to himself when he saw that she had taken the obvious bait he left for her to find and never bothered to look for the real hook. He put together and sent a subspace transmission of his own to the same location that she had. It was regretable that Legate Pa'Ren was about to have such a thoroughly unpleasant day, but he really shouldn't have lied about his activities on Bajor during the occupation, at least not when there was even a remote chance that someone someday could discover the truth.  
   
He left the sitting room to clean up the mess and wash himself free of a scent he had no doubt he'd never encounter again. There was no way she would ever let him touch her now. It was almost a pity. He had enjoyed playing that part of the game while it lasted, but he had to admit he enjoyed knowing how much she was suffering even more. The next day he checked for her at the infirmary only to hear that she had called in sick. He hummed to himself all the way to his shop.  
   
He wasn't surprised when a few days later she unceremoniously broke things off with him. By that time, he had other things to occupy him, however. His final two reliable contacts on Cardassia Prime had disappeared after telling him of several civilian uprisings. People could say whatever they liked of Tain, but he realized now more than ever just what a stabilizing force the man and those under him had been, what a stabilizing force he, himself, had been.  _Maybe I should have risked going home when I had the chance,_ he thought more than once.  
   
All of that was bad enough. Then the Klingons arrived. Tensions mounted to an alarming degree. It wasn't that the Klingons were being disruptive, loud, and boisterous. That would've been unpleasant. No, these were quiet. They murmured amongst themselves, and they shot him more hostile glances than he would have expected even given the history between the two empires. Every instinct told him they were up to no good, but how to discover what? He couldn't very well walk up to one and ask. However, maybe, just maybe, he could provoke one or more of them into revealing more than they intended.  
   
He gave much thought to this, waiting for the proper opportunity and time. While breakfasting with Odo, it finally came. He risked informing the Constable of the situation on Cardassia, knowing that in providing such a confidence, he could motivate Odo to keep his ear to the ground for any news and share it with him. As they discussed the disturbing rumors, they saw Morn being harassed on the Promenade by a group of Klingons.  
   
Odo rose, and Garak followed. As the Constable confronted them about their behavior, Garak made certain to antagonize them. He let them know he spoke their harsh, guttural tongue, and he was just pushy enough that he was sure they wouldn't be able to let it go. He stayed behind with Odo talking long enough to give them a chance to make their way to his shop, and bracing himself, he then went there himself.  
   
As soon as he came through his doors, four of them stepped to block his exit.  _Better make this good,_  he thought, resigned to what he expected would be a thorough beating. “Let me guess,” he said with false cheer, “you're either lost, or you're desperately searching for a good tailor.”  
   
“Guess again,” their ringleader growled and punched him hard enough to take the wind out of him. He fell to the floor, surrounded by a forest of kicking legs and punching fists. At first he began to think that he had miscalculated and that they would simply beat him senseless, or maybe even kill him. He knew he felt and heard bone snap, breathing shallowly to prevent any shards from piercing his lungs.  
   
“That's enough!” the one called Drex barked. “Now, Cardassian,” he said, squatting and grinning a sharp toothed grin, so close to Garak's face that his foul breath washed him in a rank miasma, “you're going to tell us what you know of this station and its defenses, or we're going to finish what we started here. Who knows? Maybe Starfleet will even thank us for ridding them of a spy.”  
   
“Have you seen their uniforms?” Garak wheezed. “They'll never forgive you.”  
   
Drex punched him so hard that he temporarily lost vision in his left eye. “This is your last chance,” he said, pulling Garak up to a seated position by his tunic with one fist.  
   
Haltingly, convincingly, the tailor gave them outdated information that he knew they could confirm with a few computer checks. He trusted that these particular thugs didn't have the wherewithal to hack the system, or they wouldn't be bothering with him, but of course, he couldn't be certain. He clung to consciousness with difficulty. Three more blows from Drex almost took care of that before Odo finally realized that something was amiss and put a swift end to his torment.  
   
_Julian  
The Infirmary_  
   
Things had been almost too quiet since the arrival of the Klingons. That changed when Odo and three other security men carried Garak through his door. “Over here,” he said, moving to prep a biobed. He didn't like the way the tailor's head was lolling, his eyes unfocused and one swelling shut. “What happened to him?”  
   
“A group of Klingons attacked him,” Odo said, sounding thoroughly disgusted. “He insists it was a...misunderstanding...and is refusing to press charges.”  
   
“What?” the doctor demanded, anger rising. He snatched up a tricorder and began to scan the man for damages, his jaw setting to a grim line.  
   
Odo shook his head, his blue eyes steely. “I didn't actually see anything, Doctor. The Klingons are refusing to talk. I can assure you I will look into it further. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” He glanced down at Garak, gave a soft “hmph”, and cleared his men out so that Julian could do his job.  
   
He didn't try to talk to Garak at first, because he didn't want him trying to respond, not with those broken ribs. It was damned difficult to break Cardassian ribs. Their torsos were built like tanks with a latticed rib structure that protected their bellows-like lungs. After all this time, he still found it hard to keep professional distance when treating Garak for injuries. He wanted to soothe his hurts with more than just cold instruments. He allowed himself the small luxury of pushing back the glossy hair where it clung to his bleeding eye ridge. Garak's eyes followed him more alertly now. He opened his mouth to speak, but Julian stopped him with a touch to his shoulder. “Not yet,” he said gently. “Let the bone regenerator do its work.”  
   
“Thank you, Doctor,” the stubborn man said anyway.  
   
“Don't thank me for doing my job,” he retorted more harshly than he intended. He was worried, and he was furious that he didn't intend to press charges for something so blatantly criminal. He touched him again by way of apology and turned away quickly to check the monitor for his vitals.  
   
“You're angry,” the voice came from behind him, matter-of-fact as was so often the case.  
   
“I can't believe you're not pressing charges,” he said, not bothering to hide his frustration. If he expected Garak to help him with that, he was sorely disappointed. The tailor launched into his usual glib distraction tactics, seeming not to take anything about the incident seriously.  _What's really going on with you?_  Julian wondered. He knew Garak well enough to know that he couldn't take all the joking at face value.  _What don't you want me to see?_  
   
He couldn't justify holding him for any longer than it took him to get him mended. He wished that he could lock him away and force him to stay for as long as the Klingons intended to be there. For once, he wished that he could truly protect the man in a meaningful way and not just make his exile on the station a little more tolerable. He wished that he could hold him, and yet, he had been the one to walk away, long ago enough now that any attempt to do any such thing on his part could only be taken as cruelty, not kindness. He watched a bit sadly as Garak stood and tested his range of motion. “How do you feel?” he asked.  
   
“A little sore and stiff, but not bad all things considered,” the tailor answered with a slight smile.  
   
“I'd offer to give you something for the pain, but I already know it would just sit on your shelf like the migraine pills,” he said.  
   
“I take them sometimes, Doctor,” Garak said with uncharacteristic gentleness.  
   
“Are you OK?” he blurted. He hadn't intended to ask in that way. He hadn't intended to ask about what had gone wrong with Decla at all, but it just came out, prompted by what he had just witnessed.  
   
Garak nodded, eying him speculatively. “Are you?”  
   
“Yes. I'm just...worried about you, being alone. If you need to talk...”  
   
“Ah,” the tailor said with an understanding smile. “I can assure you, I'm suffering no hurt. As you pointed out more than once, Lisane and I were not a good match. It's much better this way.”  
   
“You can do better than her,” he murmured, not quite able to meet the brilliant blue gaze.  
   
“Rom often told me the same thing,” he said lightly. “Come now, Julian, let's not discuss this here where your employees can overhear. I have no desire to cause Lisane embarrassment.”  
   
“Of course,” he said, feeling a tad guilty. Garak had a good point. He shouldn't allow his professionalism to slip just because he had been shaken. “Well, if you do need anything...”  
   
“You'll be the first to know,” Garak assured him, stepping close and squeezing his shoulder. “I should get back to my shop. Those Klingons made a mess of things, and blood is much harder to clean from carpet when it's dry.”  
   
He felt the pressure of that hand long after Garak's departure, much as he had upon their first meeting. It didn't make him feel disloyal to Leeta, for he knew that she was aware he would always love Garak on some level. It was one of the things he appreciated about her. She was understanding of that, and she never seemed to judge him, either for breaking the relationship off or having it in the first place. When lunch came, he went to Garak in the shop, determined that the man wouldn't have to clean his own blood from the floor alone, no matter how much he tried to pretend it didn't bother him. It was the least he could do, and Garak seemed to appreciate it.  
   
_Garak  
Garak's Clothiers_  
   
Garak was relieved that all of the Klingons had departed, save one. As that one clothed himself in one of the ludicrously chromatic Starfleet uniforms, he wasn't too worried about running afoul of his temper. He believed that as long as they stayed out of one another's way, neither would have reason to find if the other annoyed or irritated him. Business started to pick up again, even Morn feeling the need to clothe himself in something warmer. He sometimes wondered if the station really had grown colder, or if it was just a psychological effect of all the tension around them.  
   
He saw the big Lurian out, only to hear his comm beep. Turning, he circled behind his counter to answer it. Captain Sisko's voice came clear over the line, “Mister Garak, I'd like to see you in the wardroom immediately. And bring your tailor kit.”  
   
“I'll be right there,” he told him, puzzled. He gathered what he needed and started down the Promenade. He wondered if Sisko intended to pressure him yet again about pressing charges for the attack of several days ago. No, that didn't make sense. He wouldn't need his tailor kit for that. He'd know soon enough.  
   
He stepped into the wardroom and stopped short at the sight of the gathered senior staff. What was this? He heard Dax saying something about over one hundred ships and cut a glance at Sisko. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Am I interrupting?”  
   
Sisko stood and said, “I'd like to be measured for a new suit.”  
   
Garak blinked, taken aback. When Sisko assured him that he was serious and wanted him to measure him right then, he began to comply. The entire day seemed to take on something of a surreal quality in that moment. No sooner had he begun to wonder if the Starfleet captain had cracked under pressure than he tuned back in to what Dax and the new Klingon officer, Worf, were saying. The Klingons were invading Cardassia? Despite his best efforts, his entire body tensed. Everything suddenly made a terrible kind of sense. Starfleet must have given the captain orders not to interfere, and officially he wasn't. He felt a surge of gratitude toward the man and realized that at least some of his efforts to be cooperative over the years had paid off, but would it be too late?  
   
As soon as he could, he left the meeting. He ran toward his shop, faster than he had run in years, feet flying. He didn't care who saw him and narrowly avoided several collisions on the way. They had to be warned. His people had to be told what was coming for them, what would be there in less than an hour. The last person he expected to see when he contacted the Detapa Council was Gul Dukat. There was no time to question him. He tersely explained the situation and wondered if it was Dukat he was speaking to at all, or a Founder. Wouldn't that be the cruelest of ironies?  
   
He wished that he could reach through his screen and shake the man when first he reacted with disbelief and then tried to exchange a few barbs. Of course, it was exactly the sort of thing Dukat would do, so perhaps he wasn't a Founder after all. The gul told him to convince Sisko to stop the Klingons, as though one Starfleet captain could do a thing against one hundred or more Birds of Prey. After a final barb, Garak cut the transmission. They didn't have time for such nonsense! He hated the fact to the core of his being, but for once, he desperately hoped that Gul Dukat would succeed in mobilizing the military, what was left of it after the coup, at any rate. He wanted to tear his hair out. Of all times to be stuck in a glorified tin can in space instead of home where he might actually be of use!  
   
He abandoned his brief impulse toward histrionics in favor of more rational action. He intended to do as Dukat had asked, to speak to Sisko on behalf of Cardassia. He had to do something, and in light of the situation, it made sense. Clearly, the captain was already inclined to help them, or he'd never have called Garak into the wardroom the way he did. The questions were how deep did those sympathies lie, and would Sisko have enough pull with his home government to sway them?  
   
_Julian  
The Defiant_  
   
It was times like these that Julian truly appreciated the kind of man he served under, the kind of man who thought nothing of traveling through a thicket of hostile Klingon vessels in order to save an entire government of people who weren't his friends or allies, but who didn't deserve what the Klingons were doing to them. He still couldn't believe that just like that, the treaty was over and done with. The Klingons were enemies once more. It seemed so short sighted of them in the face of the Dominion threat. It didn't make sense, and even if Founders were responsible for the recent civilian coup on Cardassia, what would an invasion accomplish? The Founders could look like anyone or anything. They could easily lie in wait for the new Klingon overseer, assassinate him, and take his place. No, he knew there was something he was missing, something they all were, but what? That puzzle would have to wait for a better time. He knew that soon he'd have his hands full.  
   
He wished that Garak could have come with them. He knew how difficult it was for his friend to stay behind when his homeworld was at stake. Garak had never been the sort who wanted to wait in the wings. Whenever he could, he managed to throw himself into the action or at least get himself into more than his fair share of trouble. On the other hand, he was glad he wasn't there. Julian would have worried about him and possibly lost needed focus in the process. As they traveled at maximum warp toward Cardassian space, he hoped that they weren't too late. What would happen to Cardassia if they lost all of their leaders in one fell swoop? The loss of the Obsidian Order had been bad enough.  
   
These bleak thoughts occupied him until Worf spotted debris on his sensors. They dropped out of warp, and suddenly the view screen sprang to life, revealing the ominously drifting wreckage of three Cardassian Galor class ships. There could be survivors. The doctor in him wanted to investigate, but the officer in him recognized the sense in Worf's and Sisko's insistence that they didn't. Any Cardassian aboard those vessels would make the same argument. In light of who was at stake, they were expendable. He protested leaving without trying, but he knew he would be overridden. He felt a little sick inside as they left behind the ships and re-engaged warp drive.  
   
More time passed with none of the usual banter that usually made missions on the Defiant more tolerable. None of them knew what to expect at the rendezvous point, if there would even be a Detapa Council left to save. When they finally neared, Worf indicated that he had three Birds of Prey on his sensors attacking a badly damaged Cardassian craft. They picked up an audio distress signal from Gul Dukat. “This is Gul Dukat of the cruiser Prakesh. We're under heavy fire. Our shields are failing. I don't know how much longer we can hold out. Send reinforcements immediately. I repeat, this is ...”  
   
He grudgingly admired how calm the gul sounded despite the situation. There was urgency in his voice, yes, but he was in control of himself. He turned his attention to the screen along with the rest of the bridge crew, wincing as a Bird of Prey strafed the Cardassian vessel with disruptor fire. There was no way the ship could take much more punishment.  
   
“Orders, Captain?” Worf asked.  
   
“Two decades of peace with the Klingons, and it all comes down to this,” Julian said, his stomach clenched. He didn't need to hear Dax's assessment of the Cardassians' chances to know what they were about to have to do. He wasn't surprised at the captain's orders to arm the torpedoes and decloak. There was no more time for thinking or regrets.  
   
“Red alert,” Sisko said, giving him a nod.  
   
He returned the nod and hastily exited the bridge. They had their work cut out for them, and he had his own to attend. There would almost certainly be injuries and casualties from the Cardassian vessel. He had to be ready for them. He was glad of all the time he had spent converting the ship's pathetic excuse of a medical bay into something he could actually work with and of the staff he had hand picked for the assignment, all but one of them with previous medical experience in combat zones. They were as ready as they could be, and they had vials set aside for collecting blood samples. If any of the people they beamed aboard were Founders, he intended to be ready for them.  
   
The ship rocked with an ominous rumble. They were under fire. So far, it seemed as though the shields were holding, but for how long? “All of you,” he told his staff, “brace yourselves and stay away from the consoles until we need them. If any of them blow, I don't need to tell you what can happen, and I need every one of you in top form.”  
   
They nodded and did as he ordered. He braced himself on one of the biobeds, feeling the deck plate under him vibrate every time they took a hit. He felt the ship lurch sharply and then a particularly violent tremor. One of the consoles showered sparks. Sisko's voice came over the comm. “Sisko to Bashir. Prepare to receive casualties, Doctor. And have security standing by. I want our guests to undergo blood screenings.”  
   
“Understood,” he said, thinking,  _Way ahead of you there, Captain._  “You heard him! Get ready, and I want a full security detail standing by. No one gets in our out of this area without an escort.”  
   
“Yes, Sir,” he heard from all around.  
   
Within moments, the first of the council members began to arrive, all of them older even than Garak or Dukat. Julian realized that there were far more of them than would fit into the medical bay, and he quickly organized them into a queue and sent them to the mess hall, close enough to keep an eye on them and large enough to keep them from being too crowded. He kept a keen watch for injuries or shock, pulling a few from the line and sending them to sick bay. Overall, they were in better shape than he expected. He wasn't sure the Defiant crew would be able to say the same if they kept getting hit so violently without their shields. The entire deck rocked continually as though in an earthquake.  
   
He was glad that he didn't have to tell any of them to stay calm. They handled themselves far better than most Terrans would. Gul Dukat stepped into the mess hall, easily keeping his feet, even when a particularly devastating blast threw several of his fellows to the floor. Dukat's ice chip eyes lighted upon him, and he closed the distance between them. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “Now if you don't mind, I'd like to go to the bridge.”  
   
He held up a syringe, taking some small satisfaction in discomfiting the gul after the several times the man had been able to do so to him. Once he was sure that he wasn't a changeling, he let him go on his way with a security escort and made his rounds to help his staff with the rest of the screenings. Some of them submitted willingly; some gave him more trouble. In the end, he had his way. He felt the shift in the ship as they engaged warp.  _We made it this far,_  he thought with satisfaction but not exactly optimism. Judging by the lights, they were no longer able to cloak, and it was going to be a long trip exposed to their enemies.

**Part III**

_Garak  
Quark's Bar_  
   
Garak didn't know exactly what possessed him to go to Quark's. The place was all but deserted, with most of the civilian population of the station evacuated to Bajor. The mood was positively sepulchral. He approached the bar for a glass of kanar, only to find Quark in a particularly annoying and unsympathetic mood. He sometimes wondered how Rom stood his brother at all and found himself oddly grateful in that moment to be an only child, even if it was of a dysfunctional tyrant like Tain had been.  
   
He listened to him whine and moan about how he should have gone into the arms trade. He honestly couldn't have cared less. Worry had made itself home in every inch of his body, he had the beginnings of one of his accursed migraines, and he had no idea if anything of his government yet survived. He had no idea if Julian would make it back in one piece. It rankled him to think of the doctor going off to battle when he was forced to stay behind, useless and fretting like an old woman.  
   
“Take a sip of this,” Quark said, pushing a brown, foamy drink closer to him.  
   
“What is it?” he asked, suspicious. The foam reminded him of salt scum on the sea, and the smell coming from the glass was revolting. The name, “root beer”, didn't exactly inspire confidence, either. Against his better judgment, he gave it a try, finding it foul beyond belief. It was bad enough that he felt tormented, but now Quark wanted to torture him? He briefly regretted that he hadn't simply shot the Ferengi and Natima Lang when he had the chance long ago. Rom could've gotten the bar, and maybe, just maybe, the civilian dissident movement wouldn't have survived her death.  
   
No, he realized that in his own way, Quark was trying to be sympathetic. They had something in common, after all, a mistrust of and yet a reluctant respect for the Federation. It was such a slender thread to place all of his hopes upon, and yet it was all he had left. He watched Quark take a sip of the root beer and grimace. At least the bartender was an equal opportunity offender.  
   
He was just about to have another kanar, because the first hadn't managed to kill the cloying taste of the root beer, when a red alert sounded. Knowing what it had to be, he took his leave and hurried to his shop to arm himself. If the Klingons were here, it meant that the Defiant must be here with passengers. He checked the charge on his disruptor and tucked it into his belt at the small of his back.

He waited to see what would happen next, and his patience was rewarded. He saw more Cardassians than he had seen in a very long time being herded from the docking ring and led down a side corridor toward the nearest H-ring. He didn't let the sight of Dukat deter him. As he headed off after them, he managed to find Julian in the throng of officers taking up positions and inclined his head to him, putting as much of his gratitude as he could in his gaze. He hoped that he would have time to thank him more properly later. As it was, he was relieved to see him not only in one piece but handling himself like a consummate professional.  
   
Dukat greeted his approach with derision and skepticism, but he changed his tune when Garak drew his disruptor. As tempting as it was to give the man a reason for his mistrust, Dukat was simply too skilled and valuable to waste over a grudge. He took up position beside him and two Starfleet security officers, prepared for the onslaught he knew in his bones was coming.  
   
Klingon warriors materialized directly into the corridor. The four standing guard outside the door leading to the room housing the Detapa Council immediately began firing. It was no good. The numbers were overwhelming, and the Starfleeters were the first to drop. The Klingons closed to melee range, but they couldn't use their bat'leths to full advantage, running the risk of hitting one another instead of Garak and Dukat if too many advanced at once, nor could they shoot for risk of hitting their own men.  _Idiots,_  Garak thought with scorn.  _No sense of tactics. If these were Cardassians, we'd be in real trouble_  
   
Dukat wrenched a bat'leth from his closest opponent and hacked through his armor, dropping him messily. Garak used his disruptor as a blunt weapon, striking his foe across the face and backing him up far enough to get a shot off to his gut. He never had enjoyed hand to hand combat, and he couldn't resist expressing his distaste, any more than Dukat could resist the opening to bait him.  _Is this it?_  He thought with grim humor.  _I'm going to go down with that annoying voice in my ears? I don't think so!_  He redoubled his efforts and saw a satisfying flash further down the corridor. “They've raised internal shields,” he told Dukat, “which means they probably have the external ones back online, too.”  
   
“Let's finish them,” Dukat said, a predatory gleam in his blue-gray eyes.  
   
He needed no prompting, the two of them proving together exactly why and how the Cardassian Union became such a power in the quadrant in such a relatively short amount of time. When his disruptor was knocked from his hand, Garak swooped down and seized a family dagger from the belt of one of the fallen, thrusting up through the diaphragm and into the heart of his attacker. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a silent snarl. Soon only he and Dukat stood in a corridor lined with the bloody dead and dying, both of them cut and bruised, but fully intact. Breathing heavily, they eyed one another with grudging respect. They made quick work of those still breathing, giving no quarter to those who expected none, and dropped back into defensive positions without another word, waiting for the next wave that never came.  
   
Shielding in the corridor shimmered and dropped just as a contingency of security and medical personnel rounded the curve with Doctor Bashir and Nurse Decla just behind the Bajoran officers. Garak discarded the dagger as though it were trash and fished his disruptor out of a tangle of bodies. He straightened as Dukat said, “Better late than never, I suppose. Sorry to disappoint you if you expected Cardassian casualties.”  
   
Garak exchanged a look with the doctor and suppressed a smile. He was glad to see that Julian was long past being intimidated by the pompous windbag. Not to say that Dukat couldn't be dangerous, but there was no reason to fear him in situations like this.  
   
“Don't be ridiculous,” Julian snapped. “We're glad you made it, all of you. Please, tell the council members to let us inside to check on their welfare. We've managed to repel the Klingons. They've withdrawn from Bajoran space and called off their attack on Cardassia Prime.”  
   
Garak noticed that Dukat sagged slightly with relief. He felt exactly the same way. Dukat tapped his wrist comm and passed on the news to those waiting inside. The door slid open, and the medical personnel filed in. Despite Dukat's accusations that he was there to curry favor, Garak had no desire to linger long in the presence of most of the council members. Many of them were enemies of Tain and wouldn't hesitate to pass that enmity on to him. He slipped away unnoticed and made his way through the deserted H-ring toward his own quarters. He wanted to wash the Klingon blood from himself. He knew he could have his own minor wounds tended later. Cardassia was safe for now. That was all that really mattered.  
   
_Decla Lisane  
Temporary Shelter_  
   
Lisane fanned out with her co-workers to take readings of the elderly civilians. She walled herself behind her professional demeanor, staying focused on her task rather than thinking of how it felt to be surrounded by that many Cardassians. Some were grateful. Most regarded her with the haughty demeanor she remembered all too well from the occupation. She wondered how many of them had taken part in it in their pasts, how many of the people she tended had Bajoran blood on their hands. She saw a heavy-set man with iron gray hair standing off to the side and seemingly following her movements without trying to be obvious about it. Feeling impatient, she straightened to confront him, only to feel her heart leap into her throat.  _Feylan!_ “Come on,” she said to him, her voice thankfully not betraying her. “Let me have a look at you.”  
   
They stepped off to the side in the crowded room, and he stiffly sank to a seat against the wall. “You may have to help me back up again,” he told her, his gray eyes fond.  
   
“What are you doing here?” she hissed under her breath, going over him with her tricorder, her hand shaking.  
   
“I see you still have a temper,” he said, rumbling a low chuckle.  
   
She glared at him, feeling as though her eyes would bulge from their sockets. “And you still don't take things nearly as seriously as you should. Did you not get my message? Do you realize that Garak was right outside with a disruptor? He could've killed you.”  
   
He smiled faintly, almost touching her but seeming to think better of it at the last minute. “I've missed you,” he murmured.  
   
“Don't. You're going to make me cry. We can't talk about this here,” she whispered fiercely. “You're fine,” she said more loudly and stood from her squat. She clasped his cool hand, so large it completely engulfed hers, and helped to tug him to his feet. More than anything, she wanted to pull him into her arms and never let him go again. She stepped back. “I'll find you later,” she promised and hurried away to finish her job.  
   
She kept a sharp ear out for Dukat's conversation with some of the senior council members. It sounded as though they intended to get back underway for Cardassia as soon as possible. She couldn't blame them. The longer they were away, the more frightened their people would become. They had enough unrest and instability on their hands without this. She didn't care about Cardassia at all, but anything that threatened Feylan's safety worried her tremendously.  
   
She lingered and finally found the opportunity she was looking for. “Doctor?” she caught Bashir's attention and took him aside discreetly. “I'd like to take that patient back to the infirmary briefly. He's on medication that he wasn't able to bring with him.” She subtly indicated Feylan.  
   
“Of course,” he said, distracted.  
   
She took Feylan by the elbow and led him from the room, waving away the security officer who tried to accompany them. “I've got him,” she snapped and shot the younger man such a glare that he didn't question her.  
   
When they were out of earshot and alone in the corridor, the elder Cardassian spoke quietly. “I never wanted to leave you, Lisane,” he said. “But I had a duty, and...as I'm sure you've guessed by now, I had a family.”  
   
“You don't have to explain yourself to me,” she said tightly, looking straight ahead. “It was war.”  
   
He stopped her with a hand to her arm and turned her to face him. Even so much older, she still found him unbearably beautiful. “I want to. I want you to understand that my marriage has always been one of convenience. There is little love lost between me and my wife, although I love my children. I loved you. I still do, and I owe you my life.”  
   
She inhaled, intending to negate the debt, but he put a finger to her lips. It stilled her more surely than if he had gagged her. She felt tears sting her eyes and once more fought the impulse to embrace him.  
   
“You were never one for listening to sense,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion, “but you're going to listen to me now. You're not going to argue. You're not going to fight me. You're going to let me do something for you, and you're never to speak of it to anyone, or you'll make it all for naught.”  
   
Fingers of panic coiled about her ribcage. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she could tell it wasn't good. “Feylan,” she breathed.  
   
“No,” he said more sharply then eased his tone. “Listen to me. This Garak of yours isn't after me, Lisane. He's after you. He has hard evidence that you helped me to escape. You know what the sentence is for collaborators. You'll be exiled from Bajor.”  
   
“No,” she said, shaking her head, wide eyed. “I saw the file. I'm telling you, he intends to ruin you. You'll lose your family, your title; you'll be in disgrace. Your people don't bat an eye at liars, but they're not kind to those who get themselves caught.”  
   
“This is my choice,” he said with the full authority of his long experience and position, his gaze laser focused upon her. “I'm going to tell my people what I've hidden from them for decades, about my captivity. I'm going to tell them how I feigned my own death with an overloaded phaser and how I only recently discovered that the resistance fighter I thought I killed in the blast survived. I'd rather admit my duplicity myself than be exposed by a Bajoran. I failed to relocate and destroy the cell that captured me. I am unworthy of my title of Legate, unworthy to lead Cardassia. I can only hope that my family one day forgives me for the shame I've brought upon our name.”  
   
She choked back a sob, bringing a hand to her mouth.  _This can't be happening,_  she thought.  _How can this be happening?_  “You can't do this,” she said, her voice wavering. “Not for me.”  
   
“There's no one else I would do this for,” he said, cupping her cheek gently. “You've suffered enough at the hands of my people. I won't have you stripped of your very home when you just got it back.” He slipped his hand to the back of her head and drew her close, resting his forehead to hers. “No crying, now. You don't want me to cry, do you?”  
   
It was the only thing he could have said to stem the tide trying to break free. She clamped down her control and stepped back, quickly swiping at her eyes. She knew that there was no way to talk him out of his decision. The least she could do was to support him honorably. “No,” she said. “I never want to see you cry. I love you too much for that.”  
   
“One other thing,” he said, turning and tucking her arm in his as they walked. “I want you to promise me that you'll stay away from Garak. What little I do know of him makes me afraid for you. I don't want to know what you did to incur his enmity, but if it's true, that he's ex-Obsidian Order, you've gotten off lightly.”  
   
_Lightly?_  She thought bitterly,  _I'd rather that he had killed me a hundred times over than this, a thousand._  “I promise,” she said woodenly, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. When they reached the infirmary, she took him into the back and fetched a pill bottle from the shelf, counting out a few pills and tucking them into a packet. “They're pain killers,” she said, “in case your knee acts up later.”  
   
He smiled warmly and took them. “You remembered,” he said.  
   
“I remember everything about you, you idiot,” she retorted. A moment later, she gave in to her desire to hold him tightly. His girth was much greater than she recalled, and he no longer smelled of dust, unwashed clothing, and an unwashed body. How had she ever managed in imagination to substitute Garak for this reality? For the first time in close to two decades, probably for the last time ever, she reflected, she felt truly safe, wrapped in a strong, loving embrace. Her husband had never managed to give her this. Was that how the occupation had marked her deepest, ruined her for anyone other than a Cardassian? Before she could stop herself, she felt tears spill down her cheeks. She forced herself to let him go. “What will they do to you?” she asked.  
   
“Disgrace, but not death,” he said. “I know you won't understand this, but in a way, I've always felt this was coming. I'm...relieved. My lies never sat well with me. I should have brought troops back and killed all of you.” He held up a hand quickly. “I'm not saying that I'm sorry I didn't. I could never harm you. But I shouldn't have lied. I shouldn't have spun a tale of heroism that wasn't mine to tell, and I should never have accepted the promotion to Legate. I should have retired long before I did.”  
   
“That's rubbish,” she said harshly. “Your people need men like you. Good men! Not people like Garak and Dukat, two snakes in the grass if ever I've seen any.”  
   
“Even snakes have their uses,” he said gently. “Those snakes saved our government and our lives. I'm not quick to discount that, despite my personal feelings. Kiss me once, and then let me go. They'll come looking for me soon. I need to get back home.”  
   
She kissed him tenderly, pouring every bit of love into it that she possibly could. She knew that she would never see him again and that he was about to face isolation and scorn similar to that which Garak faced on the station, only it would be from his own people, his own wife and grown children. She wanted him to have something recent to help warm his nights, however small and insignificant in the bigger scheme of things it might be.  
   
“You're still magnificent,” he said against her lips, sighing contentedly. “I'm glad I had the chance to see you again. I'm glad you survived us, and I'm...”  
   
This time she stilled his lips with her finger. “Don't say you're sorry. It's not your apology to make. No matter what happened to me or how horrible things were, I've never been sorry I met you, so don't you dare.”  
   
She walked him back to his people, setting her features to the cool dispassion that had served her so well in her life. No one who saw them together seemed to think twice of it. Most of them were too distracted with the events of the day to pay close attention to a Bajoran nurse, and none of them had reason to suspect she had any connection whatsoever to Feylan. Thanks to his sacrifice, they never would.  
   
_Garak  
Private Quarters_  
   
Garak re-watched the anonymous subspace transmission from Cardassia, a planet-wide feed broadcast about the disgraceful lies of formerly respected, former Legate Feylan Pa'Ren. He saw his elderly wife denounce him and discard her marriage bracelet with a dramatic gesture in front of the main courthouse of Cardassia City, the gathered adult children turning their backs. He heard Dukat himself comment on how shocked and disappointed he was to see that such a well known servant of the people had stooped so low as to self-aggrandize his service during the occupation, but he praised his courage in coming clean without force or coercion. Garak snorted softly at that part.  
   
Civil unrest had followed for the rest of the day and well into the night, demonstrations, vandalism, fires. Fury thrummed his veins. It had never occurred to him that Pa'Ren would sacrifice everything for a woman he could never be with. He had thought for certain that the man would contact Decla and plead his case. Everything in his file showed him to be conservative, a traditionalist. Then the Klingons had come along and put pressure on an already volatile situation, like throwing oil onto a fire. He made a recording of the transmission onto a data rod, boxed it, wrapped it in pretty paper with a bow, and marched himself straight down to the infirmary.  
   
Julian smiled when he saw him. Decla glared daggers from behind the doctor. “Have you come to let me fix your face?” the doctor asked. “You know, Dukat insisted on getting patched up before they left. Why did you just disappear like that afterward? Some people were looking for you. They wanted to thank you.”  
   
“I need no thanks for serving Cardassia,” he said smoothly. “It's a privilege I cherish. I couldn't dream of bothering you this morning, Doctor, not for anything so minor. I'm sure that Lisane can do it, if she's so inclined.”  
   
The venom in her eyes turned the green to an apple shade. “Is that for me?” she asked, indicating the box.  
   
“As a matter of fact, it is,” he said, if anything even more pleasant than with the doctor.  
   
“You shouldn't have,” she said, taking it and seizing his elbow in a vise-like grip.  
   
“I trust I'll see you at lunch?” he asked Julian over his shoulder.  
   
“I wouldn't miss it,” the doctor said, shaking his head at the two.  
   
As soon as they got into an exam room, she had the computer shut and lock the door. “You have a lot of nerve,” she growled, slamming the box down on the counter top.  
   
“Be careful with that,” he said sharply. “It's the fruit of your labor. You should be very, very proud of yourself. You've helped to destabilize Cardassia further, quite the feat for a nobody former resistance fighter from the Lonar Province.”  
   
“My labor? You're the one...”  
   
He launched at her and banged her head against the door, a hand at her throat. “No, you're the one,” he snarled, so furious it was all he could do not to kill her. “You're the one who couldn't leave well enough alone. You saw something you wanted, a Cardassian to satisfy your sick needs, and with no thought to who you hurt or how you did it, you went about trying to ensure that you attained it. When that didn't work, you weren't satisfied. You decided to try to take from me the one thing left to me that matters to me, and if the doctor were even slightly weaker, you would have succeeded. You would have shredded a person who had done nothing to you but reject you because of your hurtful manipulations.  
   
“You knew what I was. You knew what I would do. Despite knowing it, you bedded me anyway. You had to know it wouldn't work, that I would never give up my rightful claim of vengeance for a worthless taste of your dubious pleasures. For you!” He slammed her head against the door again, harder. “A truly good man gave up his life, everything he has and is on Cardassia, for you, for a pathetic, sick, waste of flesh who can't even feel anything if it isn't rammed down her throat or up her ass hard enough to hurt.”  
   
She swallowed thickly against his hand, every word excoriating her to the core. She didn't want to see what was in that box of his, but she knew she'd open it. That is, she would if she survived his rage. She wasn't entirely sure there was any guarantee of that in that moment. Part of her didn't want to.  
   
“I've been very good about shedding old habits since coming here,” he dropped his voice dangerously. “You'd never know it now, but I was once extremely easily offended and so vicious even my superiors felt the need to curb my...enthusiasms. Pa'Ren has been demoted and disgraced for his complete and utter stupidity at letting his sentiment override his common sense and his sense of duty to the state. At a time when he was needed most, he decided to turn from a pragmatist to a bleeding heart romantic. Having sampled your questionable charms, I can't for the life of me fathom why, but there it is. What do you think will happen to him if it comes out that in coming clean with one lie, he told a far worse one, just to save garbage like you?”  
   
Although she hadn't been able to step past her own self-loathing to fear what he might do to her, she deeply feared the further threat to Feylan. “You can't do that! You can't make everything he did for nothing,” she said, hating the plea in her own voice.  
   
“That is precisely my point. Everything he did was for nothing. For you, and not just he but my people have suffered for it. You offend me. Your presence on this station offends me. I feel a relapse coming on to some very bad, very nasty habits. I fear Feylan Pa'Ren won't survive them.”  
   
“What do you want?” she asked, trembling violently. “I'll do anything. Anything for him.”  
   
“Leave this station. Don't ever come back. Don't ever let me so much as hear your name or see your shadow. I promise you, if you try to avenge yourself or him over this, he will be executed within forty-eight hours. I don't need influence to make that happen. All I need is information, information I already have.”  
   
He released her so suddenly that she sank to her knees without the support. She could hardly breathe; she had never seen such deep rooted malice, such naked hatred. She didn't doubt for an instant that he would do everything he said. She realized that Feylan had been right. This was the most dangerous man she had ever known, and she was lucky—they both were—to escape his wrath alive.  
   
He watched her, quivering with suppressed violence, and stalked over to take a seat on the edge of the bed. “Do your job. Breathe a word of your real reason for leaving to anyone, and Feylan is not the only one who will pay the price for your stupidity. I'll leave you alive long enough to watch the aftermath. You'd be surprised who I managed to dig up while conducting my little investigation.”  
   
Her hands were shaking so badly it took both of them to hold the dermal regenerator steady. He studied her for any signs of resistance or deceit. All he read was naked terror. Good. He had broken her. He had seen some manage to rally themselves from the depths of such emotion to cause trouble later. He didn't believe she'd be one of them. She genuinely loved Pa'Ren, probably more than she genuinely hated herself. As long as Pa'Ren lived, she'd be neutralized, and if he died, well, it was as he said. He had contingency plans.  
   
His satisfaction didn't touch his regret at having inadvertently harmed Cardassia. He'd be a long time smarting from that, his miscalculation and mistakes. When she finished with him, he said, “You have two weeks,” and let himself out without a backward glance.  
   
_Julian  
Replimat Café_  
   
Julian watched Garak eating, finding himself staring overly long at the hands that always held such fascination for him. He had several things that he wished to say, unsure of how to go about saying them without provoking the Cardassian's testiness or sarcasm.  _It doesn't matter if you do, does it? It's not about how he reacts. It's about what you want to express,_  he thought. Bolstered by that thought, he cleared his throat. The man's blue eyes lifted immediately, his attention focused. “I think...it's very unfair that you're still here,” he said carefully.  
   
Garak wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it aside. “Eager to see me go?” he asked coyly.  
   
“You know better,” Julian snorted. “What I mean is that I don't believe that Gul Dukat killed all those Klingons alone, and he wouldn't have even known Klingons were coming for him if it weren't for you. Surely he doesn't have so much influence that he can make the others keep you away?”  
   
The tailor smiled slightly. “Your knowledge of Cardassians may be considerable for a Starfleeter,” he said, “but there's much yet to learn.”  
   
“Then I suppose I should be grateful you're still here to teach me,” he said, forcing a smile. He knew that Garak wouldn't appreciate pity, but he truly felt bad for him and angry that his people had such little gratitude toward someone who had risked everything to save them.  
   
“I'm grateful,” Garak said carefully, “to all of you who risked so much for my government. Cardassia may never formally thank you or acknowledge it, but I'm aware of what you risked. I plan to speak to Captain Sisko about this as well, but I wished to tell you first.”  
   
His smile turned from forced to genuine in an instant. “I was glad to be able to do it. I'm lucky to have a commanding officer like the captain. I'm lucky to be here, period. Speaking of being here, Nurse Decla just turned in her resignation and said she's going back to Bajor. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?” He lifted a brow.  
   
Garak looked surprised. “No,” he said. “Did she say why? She seemed fine when I spoke to her earlier today.”  
   
He shook his head and rolled his eyes. He should have known better than to expect anything forthcoming. If he were the betting sort, he'd lay a wager that Garak and whatever had been in that pretty little box of his had everything to do with it. Honestly, he was simply so glad to see her go that he had no intention of looking into the matter if Garak wasn't willing to speak of it. “There's one other thing,” he said. “I meant to approach you about this before the two of you broke things off, but one thing after another conspired to distract me from it. She used her medical override code in your quarters. You may want to be certain she didn't access anything sensitive.”  
   
The tailor laughed lightly. “My dear Doctor, the only thing she would have found on my computer are business records, inventory sheets, and tax forms. Of course, there's also a wide selection of excellent Cardassian literature, but she wouldn't have needed an override code to access it. I'm not concerned, but it's very kind of you to tell me.”  
   
“In other words, you already knew about it, and you've taken care of it. I should have known.” He chuckled and took a bite of his food. “Why do I have the feeling I ought to thank you?”  
   
“Thank me? For what?” the tailor asked, blinking.  
   
“For removing a thorn from my side,” he replied after swallowing.  
   
“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,” Garak said, his eyes wide, “but if I did, I'd tell you that you're most welcome. It's always a pleasure to be of service to you.”  
   
“What am I to do with you?” he asked, feeling a warm surge of affection. It was refreshing to see that no matter how much things around the station had changed, Garak was much the same as he ever was, slippery, wily, and unwilling to take credit even when it was due.  
   
The Cardassian fixed him with a look that made his palms slightly damp and set him to tingling places he didn't need to be tingling for a friend. Garak leaned closer, his voice pitched for Julian's ears alone. “When you figure that out, Doctor,” he said, “I trust you'll tell me?” He leaned back and beamed at him, a knowing gleam in blue eyes.  
   
Julian nodded slowly, toying with his fork and unable to look away. “I promise you,” he said, “you'll be the first to know.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story spans “The Adversary” and “The Way of the Warrior.” It's sadly not at all stand-alone. I'm thinking most of them in the series probably won't be from here on out. Too much has happened. Some of the dialogue comes from “The Way of the Warrior,” more than in other stories simply because it was a longer episode. This was first posted on LiveJournal on Jan. 29, 2010.


End file.
